Passenger Seat
by sugarplumsenpai
Summary: Sometimes the journey is the reward. [Written for the prompt: Road Trip]
1. Chapter 1

What about you and me driving through the streets at night makes me feel this alive?

Maybe it's the summer nights, cooling down the world after the day. Its lingering heat still radiating from all around, making the crickets sing and the appeasing head wind a welcome companion as the asphalt breathes hotly in anticipation of a few hours of rest.

Maybe it's the city lights, blurring in the darkness. Uncatchable. Barely seen and already gone again, shooting past us like comets.

Maybe it's your hand on my knee, or mine on yours, depending who's driving. I can feel your warmth, your soft smile as you look out of the passenger windows, your green eyes watching the world rush by as your fingers send their never-ceasing caresses through the fabric of my trousers, their drawn circles holding me together and tearing me apart from the inside out. It all makes me want to melt into the seat that smells of your cologne, and drive on forever. Give you the world. Whatever it takes.

On other days your leg bends and stretches under my fingertips while you adjust the pressure on the pedals. I can close my eyes, or simply let them wander over nothing in particular as the wind through the open windows blows away my worries and the tension of the day. On a straight passage your hand always comes to rest on mine, your thumb brushing over my knuckles, your fingers easily slipping between mine for a moment or two, and I feel it again: your gentle smile. It's like feathers on my skin until my heart is so full that it seems to burst any moment.

Maybe it's the music when we drive. The calm tunes of the radio wafting quietly into the summer night, leaving a trail of song and rhyme behind us like idle fingers running through water. Fleeting memories, too fickle to catch.

Maybe it's the feeling of being in control behind the wheel. Driving you, only you. Your free hand held out of the opened window, diving through the airstream, the other one holding on to me.

Maybe it's the feeling of giving the control away on the passenger seat, knowing you would never take me to places I don't want to go. Curiously wondering if it's one of those nights you stop the car in the middle of nowhere, just so you can lean over to kiss me.

Maybe it's the night mirroring in your eyes when our gazes meet briefly. They are fueled by hopes and dreams, shining with trust, and giving me the wish to drive you to the moon and back.

Maybe it's my own, surprisingly relaxed expression in the side mirror. The air cooling my cheeks after a day too hot, blowing over my neck where you nuzzled me before when we stepped into the car. Your wild hair tickling my brow and smelling of your shampoo and Eren, Eren, Eren. Your mouth soft against my pulse, your breath warm and damp against my skin, and your lips moving gently with a whisper against my ear while your fingers eased the car key out of my hand. "My turn today."

We never talk during these trips. Don't need to.

We never have a destination or certain route either. Just the driving itself.

My shoulders relax, the tension fades, slips away into nothing. The world is beautiful, so very beautiful, and for once in my life it doesn't even have to make any sense—as long as you're next to me. With the street running under our feet, and the stars shining over our heads while your favourite band plays on the radio.

I'll never be able to listen to their songs again and not think of you. Of your fingers resting of the steering wheel, the engine purring in delight, the summer filling my lungs. Your occasional humming carrying away my thoughts, while we leave everything else behind.

I don't know about you, but I can always tell when you begin the way back. Your eyes would be carefree and at peace, your mouth curling around little secrets while your hand would reach down again to warmly squeeze mine; if in an apology for the return or in reassurance for the rest of the night, I never can tell.

All I can tell is that the world feels as though it's just the two of us, and that we're driving.

Driving home. Home to you.


	2. Chapter 2

On nights like this it feels like I could do anything. I'd just have to step into the car with you sitting next to me.

It might be one of my favourite things. One of these little pleasures that make life worthwhile. All the other stuff doesn't matter.

Nothing can catch us in here.

We never plan these trips in advance. Sometimes during the day, the feeling inside of me would rise that later, tonight, the roads would belong to us. Once that idea has settled, the rest of the day would be easier, bearable, until I'm home again. And you'd always know.

Sometimes I wonder how you do that. Am I that obvious? Maybe I am. You've always been good at reading me, always know when I need to unwind, when I'm happy, when I'm sad, when I'm desperate for your presence. You'd simply look at me, and know. On days like today you'd wait after dinner and reach for the car key with the silent question in your silvery-grey eyes: "you or me?"

It all started with me driving you, but honestly I prefer it both ways—you on the passenger seat or me, it never mattered.

I know you secretly prefer the summer road. Can see it in the quiet smile you don't try to hide from me as often as you used to. Can feel it in the way you relax sitting next to me, like storm clouds dissipating around you. I have to agree. There's something enticing about the road in the summer and the slipstream searing past us as we drive. As if the night had waited for us. Perhaps that's why we mostly do this during the warmer half of the year.

And yet, I love it in the spring time just as much. It reminds me too much of when we first did this.

We were friends back then. Best friends. People used to joke that someone had sewn us together when we were born, because they hardly saw us apart. I never gave it much thought, felt so comfortable around you—accepted, understood, stronger, purposeful—from the moment we met. Looking back, I can't tell if I was especially stupid that it took me that long to notice, or whether we just made things happen at our own pace. Being wherever you were simply seemed like the natural order of things, and we both never were the types to give too much of a damn about conventions.

Our first drive was when I got my first car.

I'd worked hard for it; summer jobs, then a real one, saving every dime until I had enough to buy myself a rusty, ancient car. It wasn't anything fancy. It never had been. Still, it was mine, mine alone. My first big real life purchase whatsoever. Something I'd paid for with my own, fairly earned money. I was so proud that day, and the whole world seemed to be so open.

You insisted on buying me my first tank full of fuel and said with that small frown of yours: "drive wherever you want to go."

I asked you where you'd go to, and you looked at the horizon, your arms folded.

"Nowhere," you answered. "Anywhere." You almost seemed surprised when I told you to step in.

Even back then we didn't talk much in the car. Not after your rather fond comment about that old clunker at least having seat belts and smelling like 'old fart', which, admittedly, it did.

I took you past fields with blossoming apple trees that day. Past bright acres with yellow canola, and through a shadowy wood. You'd somehow managed to sneak a tape into the cassette deck, and when I looked at you in irritation that it was a mixed one, I was only met by the back of our head. Your elbow resting on the rolled down window, your chin resting in your hand, your eyes fixed on the scenery rushing by. Your neck a strong, pale pillar, glowing almost golden in the afternoon sun.

You were so beautiful to me at that moment. All dressed in black, your inky strands fluttering in the vibrant spring air, and your free hand resting casually on the cushion of the seat. Your skin tone in such a compelling contrast to the fabric of your trousers. You simply fit into that place in my car, with its awfully tacky faux fur upholstered seats. There was the hint of a tension in your jaw and yes, in hindsight I indeed do sometimes wonder how long I made you wait, no matter how much you always insist on the fact that "it wasn't too long, Eren."

That moment I only smiled, and turned up the volume of the radio. You've always had a great taste in music, and somehow it matched our drive. Compelling tunes of electric guitars and powerful drums. Ethereal voices singing in languages I couldn't and didn't have to understand. Floating melodies for endless times, and we kept on driving until the sun had set. I still love that band from the first song.

I remember you actually falling asleep next to me. Your figure suddenly slumping slightly and your head sinking against your shoulder, the traffic lights reflecting on your peaceful features. I turned the volume down again, and stopped at the next parking lot on the top of a hill.

You woke up instantly the moment I turned off the roaring engine, your eyes shining in the moonlit silence and just blinking at me wondrously.

"You like the car," you mumbled.

I smiled, letting my hands wanter over the steering wheel. "I do."

"You can go anywhere now."

And this time I caught the hesitance in your voice, or maybe you were just too sleepy to keep it to yourself.

I still don't know what exactly it was that made me lean over, to trace the shadows under your tired eyes and kiss you. Still, it was the best thing I've ever done. I remember you whispering softly against my lips and I remember our shared, hasty efforts to slide your seat back so I could crawl into your lap which ended in a futile attempt at doing so—my legs to long, the car too small and narrow—and in me giggling helplessly into the collar of your shirt with your own, soundless chuckle shaking against my ear.

I remember resting my forehead against yours in that parking lot, just looking at you, and letting the moment sink in, before kissing you again. Slowly, deeply.

I remember wanting to hold on to your knee on our way back and you taking my hand in yours to guide it back to my side, but letting your fingers remain on my thigh. I loved you so much in that moment and loved you even more when I woke up to your face on the next morning. To the morning shadow on your chin, your love bites stinging wonderfully on my neck, your eyes already looking at me in tentative worry from my pillow until I smiled and pulled you back into my arms where you've always belonged, and still do. I remember your hair tickling my face, your black strands fine and silky against my nose, and me inhaling your scent with a silent thank you as I pressed you closer still.

You hair has greyed over the years.

"Early," you like to grumble, "too fucking early." No matter how much I insist on the fact that I want you, only you, grey hair and all. Fact is, the colour suits you so well. Before, your hair has always been shockingly dark against your pale brow. Now it mingles with silvery lines that match your eyes and your calmness, your strength.

The car is different too. The other one didn't make it too long after all. But it was a good car…mine…ours. So much happened in it and I remember your cool fingers slipping between mine when we said goodbye to it. But it's never been the car that I liked. Only the feeling. And your knowing, warm gaze tells me you understand.

Sometimes it feels like here, now, are the best times of our lives.

And just like back then I'd drive you, wherever you want to go. Anywhere and nowhere. Far away and always with my destination sitting right next to me. With your hand on my lap. With the stars in your eyes, and stolen kisses in the moonlight.

I wouldn't have it any other way.


End file.
